Day 45

2020-05-02

(Big Brother is watching from a) Social Distance

Thank God that’s over. Not the Kerfuffle, you eejit, yesterday. Because I gave up smoking yesterday. But that’s all in the past now, along with all the other things that are not actually happening right now. And right now I have, burning away merrily beside me in a cut-glass ashtray I nicked from my Ma’s house (when she had a house), what is probably, to those who enjoy camping out and to a genus of sea-based mammals, my fifth cigarette of the morning. But, in my defence, it has been a long morning so far, and will continue to be up until approximately 11.59, when it will become a busy afternoon.

You may deduce from this that my attempt to give up smoking was unsuccessful. In fact, you may deduce whatever you want from it: I am not in control (yet) of your deductions, or your faulty mental processes. So, for all I care, deduce from it that grass is green if you are that ignorant, or that Greeks have no word for blue just because one poet of theirs called the sea wine-dark – did none of those literary critics ever wonder from that whether there were, in fact, bottles of Blue Nun for sale in Greece in Homer’s time? As a point of information, Homer did not actually hang out in what is termed Ancient Greece either. Because, having no other choice, he lived in the exact moment we are all currently living in now, he lived in Greece, as do the occupants of that archipelago now, unless you are going to tell me that they live in Future Greece. Which I hope you aren’t, as neither the future nor the past exist. Go and read Four Quartets if you do not believe me. And you’re right, TS Eliot is indeed an anagram of Toilets, but it does not follow that his poetry is shit.

So my deduction that your deduction about my abilities in giving up smoking is wrong goes like this: I have given up smoking many times, sometimes as often as 9.3 times in one day, and am now pretty expert, and successful, at doing it. So put that in your clay pipes (excellent trigger for the funeral news coming later there) and smoke it, sanctimonious ex-smokers of the World. Indeed, each night I give up smoking for a period ranging from 3.2 to 7.6 hours, apart from the odd, wee sneaky feg if I have to wake up in the middle of the night to siphon the python due to my chronic, terminal condition (that’s enough death triggers now, I feel), which, most nights, happens approximately 2.48 times. So giving up smoking is not something I have any difficulty achieving. It is the continuing not smoking after having given it up that I find a tad tricky. But that is a completely separate issue, and, for now, I am concentrating my efforts on the giving up project.

But why, given all the advantages attached to smoking, would I even contemplate jettisoning my favourite hobby? Who knows? Not me, certainly. I never interrogate thoughts that pop into my head unbidden as to their provenance; it would seem rude, I feel; I mean, I have no idea how long of a journey they have made to get there. Maybe they came all the way from Russia, who can tell? (great link work coming up) Remember I promised I would show you the proof that mentioning certain words ici turns on an alarm in a wee spy’s computer somewhere, and the blog consequently gets a hit from the territory of the red bear? Well, take a gander at that pic up there. Yes, Mo’s birthday, 26 April, 2020 (and other years as well, probably), was the day I carried out that experiment and you can see for yourself the resultant hit on the map. So Big Brother is certainly watching me – and you, too. Live your life as if you are constantly under CCTV surveillance. Because you are.

Also from the pic, you will notice that we are doing quite well in term of flattening the curve of readership of the blog. In that regard, Rhona, you are not so much sacked as relieved of your ex-duties as ex-Marketing Manager. So take the rest of the day – and your life – off. The spike on that graph was CatGate, in case you have not been keeping up with your back reading, but we have already dealt with that threat. Houl on there, I have an urgent TEAMS meeting call coming through from someone. Play on the interwobble or something until I get back …

… well, now, that puts a different complexion on your dead granny, doesn’t it? That was ex-Marketing Manager Rhona on the TEAMS thing, and she uploaded to my confusion this graph:

2020-05-02 (1)

And that indicates a different bucket of fish altogether, doesn’t it? That is weekly readership stats, and according to Rhona is proof positive that she was doing a good job and that we have not passed, or even come within a beagle’s gowl, of the peak yet. Remember, we’re all in this together, so if what you read here is to your liking, tell all your friend(s) about it. The sooner we get to the peak, the sooner we can pause for a while and have a wee rest and enjoy the view. And maybe a picnic. Bring your own, obviously.

Rhona is still sacked as Marketing Manager, though, and applications are welcome. Just don’t send any CVs, especially not 2CVs – I have no more room in the stables for them. She is, however, now the new Finance Director of the blog, and fair fucks to her, I say, and will also write in her official appointment letter. Her first duty as Finance Director is, of course, as a gesture of good will, to pay the back salaries of the staff from her own funds, and then to get herself onto the mis-government furlough scheme so that I am liable only for about 79.8% of her exorbitant nine-figure salary (most of the nine figures are after the decimal point).

Right. Enough beating around the bush. Margaret McKenna, RIP. My Aunt Margaret died in a nursing home yesterday from covid-19, among other things. That’s her down there in the pic, on the right. The other two are my (late) Ma and my (later) Granny, aka Margaret’s mother-in-law.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam uasal.

three mckenna women

19 thoughts on “Day 45

    1. Do you actually know how to spell cheque? You are not a USer, you know.

      Thanks about the aunt, but she was on the way out for a while. Hard to kill a bad thing, as you know. And let someone else win the family bingo today, for God’s sake!

      Sent from Mail for Windows 10

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  1. You didn’t state where the photo was taken it looks like a kitchen house on the Falls, but the window is too large. Also, the mother was called ‘Ma’ but to us she was Boop Cummings an important handle belonging to her.
    Stop the stopping smoking it’s not necessary and one of the three things you do. Also, the Americans (who don’t own oil) will soon announce it is a cure for cancer because they’re not getting the revenue expected from leagalizing cannabis. Cannabis does fuck all for brain seizures but sure as hell makes you feel good, that’s a clinical statement and I reckon it should calm autism.
    To answer your question on cattle of course they stand into shelter from the rain when it’s available and if they have enough food in their bellies. You are waterproof same as them and your first choice will be to stand under a tree and smoke while waiting for a shower to pass. Difference with them they are also watching the grass grow but they have way more patience than us and it’s also grass is really important to them.
    You and words and land and ownership, what the fuck was all that 3am whiskey thought about ? I would think the answer is in that ‘dead language’ you are so mesmerised with. I would guess the language refers to belonging to land rather than ownership, stop being a Brit dreaming in Irish.
    TS Elliot Wasteland is a good read for any 14-16yr old, leave him alone, his essay on Hamlet was unimaginative, but he was attention seeking with that shit.
    You can’t refer to me as Rocket because my attention span is low, if I get bored then I may be a little unpredictable.
    The other two things you do are drink Guinness and speak Irish.
    Was the aunt from Rathlin?
    Walter
    I hate Bill Gates the evil cunt, that had to be said the site might get closed now

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  2. Don’t really know where to start with this, Walter. Have you been drinking? While you may know the name of my Ma, you have to realise this is not just a personal blog between me and you: there are strangers reading this who do not know me, you or my dead Ma. I am indeed waterproof, and have been out in the rain without the use of a tree many’s a time: these local cows are just wimps. If I told you the pic was taken in the back yard of my aunt’s house, would that satisfy you? My very interesting treatise on personal pronouns was indeed inspired by the lack of ownership involved in their use in Irish. And, even if you are talking to your brother, you say, in Irish, ‘Where’s me Da?’ and not, ‘Where’s our Da?’ Be logical, Walter: if I gave up giving up smoking, then I would not be smoking anymore, which I am. The aunt was not from Rathlin; the maternal grandmother was. A McCurdy if ever I saw one. There exists a thing called The McCurdy Curse. Want me to use it on our Bill?

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    1. Man with head hair like wire and huge pubic (public((hoe) (((how many grammatical brackets rescue this))) ¿ huge public followers.
      So this forum is not for free comment? You didn’t explain Protestants may be reading apologies on my part.
      Walter

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      1. Walter, what is wrong with you? (Don’t answer that; the internet has limited capacity.)

        You can say whatever you want in the comments section. But you cannot expect all readers of the blog – including the permitted number of Protestants under strict 50-50 recruitment guidelines – to have the same intimate knowledge of my non-virtual life as you do. Here’s a wee hint: never apologise to Protestants; they never apologised to us for Martin Luther, or for 50 years of discrimination in the north-east of this country. You do know that in the aul tongue the word that means ‘Scots person’ also means’ Protestant’, don’t you? This is an example of politics influencing language, viz, The Plantation of Ulster with Scottish Protestants.

        The answer to your question about the number of brackets is 42.

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  3. Fabulous photo. People always stood against brick walls for photos in the olden days. Those ladies really rocked the buttoned up cardigan vibe. Who is the small child peering through the original, perfectly preserved sash window? Why weren’t they asked to pose for the photo?

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  4. Well done for spotting it. I did it to annoy you. And I succeeded. Small victories.
    She was probably a relation then. I have many, many relatives on my father’s side of the family. My aunt (not dead) insists on telling me all about them and showing me photos of them lined up against brick walls. I have no idea who any of them are. My perfidious Albion upbringing has rendered me very insular and antisocial. On my mother’s side, the Armagh contingent, there are only three relatives. A much easier number to deal with.

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    1. Just so long as you are 2m away from help, I will not have to phone up the psni toutline on you. But, as according to the phrase in Irish, ‘God’s help is closer than the door,’ make sure you are also 2m away from the door of whatever room you are in 2b.

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    1. He is not my friend. The very idea of it!

      I mean, why would a God hang around with a human for a friend when there are all those intelligent mammals swimming around in the sea he could play with if he was lonely?

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